


The Rustle in the Pocket

by Darkhorse



Series: Letters [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-02
Updated: 2013-03-02
Packaged: 2017-12-04 01:56:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/705162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkhorse/pseuds/Darkhorse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A second reply to the letter prompt, having been asked for a happy alternative</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Rustle in the Pocket

**Author's Note:**

> For some absurd reason I was listening to Wicked while I wrote this, especially For Good. Might have influenced it somewhat

Valjean marched the inspector out of the cafe and round into a narrow alley that wasn't blocked before shoving him against the wall so they were face to face.  
“You intend to shoot me.” The voice was still the inspector's, cold and calm  
Valjean said nothing, simply sliding the pistol up the Inspectors coat until it rested on the breast pocket, right over the heart. Then, driven by a dark part of his mind hardened by prison, he pushed forward, so that Javert would feel to cold barrel dig towards his heart.

Something rustled in the pocket.

Slowly, using he free hand, he reached forward and fished out the offending article. It was a bit of paper, folded neatly so it would fit into the pocket. He looked down on it uncomprehendingly for a long moment until something struck him. This was his handwriting, a letter he'd written years ago and had smuggled out of prison by one of the washerwomen.

Slowly, ever so slowly he raised his eyes from the letter back to Javert, only to find the policemen doing exactly the same. They locked gazes. In silence.  
“How many did you get?” He wasn't sure why, or even if, he sounded aghast  
“How many did you send?”  
There was another moment of silence “I wrote one a month in Toloun, and gradually more once I was out... The last was only a few days ago."  
Javert gave a steady nod “Yes... that is how often I got them, give or take.”  
Silence again. Valjean had written them first out of anger, then out of habit and a desire to share the things that lit up his life. He'd sent the first to Javert because it was meant for him, and the others ended up following. He'd never considered, after the first important ones, that Javert might get them, might actually read them.  
“They... They kept me sane, sometimes, Valjean. Truely. And they pulled me off my moral high-horse a few times too. I was taught that the law is greater is any man, that it is the only path to redemption.”

They stood and Valjean who had bowed his head for the majority of that speech, sawing at Javert's bounds, found a hand lifting his jaw. It was with reluctance that he braced to meet those stone cold, incriminating eyes.  
But there was a reluctant half smile on all Javert's face “But I'd forgotten the oldest laws of them all, to be charitable and to love thy neighbour and thy enemy.”  
There was a brief stutter of muskets from the barricade and they both jumped, Javert's eyes darting with fear.  
“Come with me now, you'll die here Valjean.”  
He shook his head “I can't, Cosette's sweet-heart is here, he must be saved.” He saw Javert's jaw lock slightly  
“Then protect him, the curly head, and wait here when the barricade falls. I'll come back for you both.”  
Valjean was reluctant “A trick” But Javert shook his head and placed a hand on his crucifix  
“On my honour”  
“Javert!” That was Cosette's student.  
They heard footsteps and Valjean raised the gun to wall level, jerking his head down the ally. Javert fled, he fired.

They both stood looking at number five Rue Plumet, side by side. Javert was nibbling his lip, thinking. Then, as if he'd come to a decision he straightened and marched away. Valjean watched him go, a frown of worry for the other man marring his face. 

"Monseigneur Fauchelevent?” It was the porteress's voice as she banged on the door "M. Fauchelevent? There's a message boy for you”  
He opened the door, to see a boy wearing police runner uniform standing next to her. The boy spoke evenly, quickly  
“Ultime Fauchelevent, formally known as Jean Valjean?”  
For some reason he couldn't be bothered to deny it “Yes”  
The boy saluted and handed him a letter “With the compliments of First Class Inspector J-”  
“The titles aren't needed anymore boy” Came Javert's growl from the stairs and the tall, wolfish man loomed out of the shadows “Be off with you”  
It seemed a classic Javert dismissal, but Valjean caught the glint of silver as the boy passed the man. Even the porteress backed down as Inspector approached the door  
“Might I come in?”  
Shaking, Valjean nodded, but made a point of not bolting the door when he shut it behind Javert. The sight of the inspector standing in his hallway was frankly confusing, and very unnerving.  
"Why don't you open the letter?”  
Well he wasn't going to be mocked, so did so.

Javert watched as the older man's eyes went wide, smiling as Valjean stared at him, then back at the parchment in shock.  
“What does it say?”  
Valjean read with a stammer “We hear-by declare Jean Valjean, born in Faverolles, and known by the prisoner numbers 24601 and 9430, c-cleared of a-all c-crimes, and a f-free man of France.”  
Javert felt like he was going to choke, only to have something like a crows caw burst out of his chest at the expression on his old constant's face. It took a long moment for him to realise what it was. Laughter, pure joyous laughter  
“What did you do to get this off the prefect?”  
He really was grinning now “I threatened to resign, Jean, that's what... And then, once it was all ratified and sealed... I did it anyway! Another fit of laughter knocked the breath from his lungs.  
Valjean stuttered incoherently “Y-you... you _resigned?_ Inspector Javert, terror of the Sant Michel streets?”  
“Quite...I would rather work with you, old constant than against you” He held out his hand “Though I must trespass on your hospitality for a while Jean, my flat was tied to my job.”  
Valjean was studying a scrap pinned to the document, but then he took Javert's hand with his own, a large smile on his face “You're welcome to it, Stefan.”

The last ties to his old life broke when he heard that. Stefan, the Romani boy, not Phillipe the scholar or Javert the law enforcer, stood in the dingy central room, accepting a job that wouldn't pay, that would be dirty and probably thankless. He'd be down with the rough, one step above the gutter.  
But he didn't care, his sacrifice was a small thing besides the death of the students, a tiny thing compared to the joy that radiated from Jean's face.  
Perhaps now he would understand what life was for.


End file.
